


Saved by the Cavalry

by Kryptaria, stephrc79



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Party, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 02:05:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria, https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephrc79/pseuds/stephrc79
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's nothing safe about working in espionage - not even a bloody Christmas Party. MI6 decided to turn the year-end Christmas Party into fancy dress, causing one Quartermaster and one Double-O to show up in the same cavalry costume. </p><p>Q doesn't have time to be infuriated, though. Not when it turns out that Father Christmas is also trying to kill him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saved by the Cavalry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Salios](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salios/gifts).



> A special Christmas gift for Salios!
> 
> ~~~~

The uniform was olive drab, made of too-warm wool and too many layers. That was all Bond really knew about it. He wasn’t precisely an expert on World War II uniforms — not for the bloody cavalry, at least. But it fit across the shoulders without stretching, the trousers weren’t falling down, and he did look damned good in it, he had to admit. He took one last drag on his cigarette and stopped admiring himself in the night-dark window glass. Time to go to war.

 

~~~

 

Q stood in the doorway of the ballroom and tugged nervously at the hem of his wool coat. Someone at MI6 had had a brilliant idea that this year’s Christmas party should be fancy dress. Since Q had always had a fascination with the events of World War II, he’d decided it might be fun to wear a cavalry uniform from that era. He should have anticipated it, but he was surprised at how _heavy_ the uniform turned out to be. His only saving grace was that it had become exceptionally cold in London over the last couple weeks.

He made a beeline to the bar — anything to avoid having to talk to the few faces he recognised. Without a computer to shield him from everyone, he was painfully aware that he was simply too sober to have anything resembling a decent conversation.

“Vodka and soda,” he ordered quietly. As the bartender turned to fix his drink, Q leaned against the bar and silently calculated how long he’d have to be at the party before he could go back upstairs to his reserved suite and attack the room service menu.

 

~~~

 

Bond always planned his arrivals to the minute: early enough to not be considered rude, late enough that people would be drinking — and subsequently less boring. God, he hated company affairs. Damn Mallory for requiring _everyone_ to attend — everyone but the agents who were in the field.

Bond had tried his hardest to push out his last assignment, but his target had actually stumbled right into him. He’d made the capture by reflex alone, before he could stop himself, and now he was back in London, just in time to attend the party. He’d even tried to get in on the interrogation, but no luck.

He walked into the hotel ballroom, where everyone from MI6, from the facilities staff and security guards to the entire bloody executive team, were gathered in conversation clusters. The buffet had already been demolished, though the hotel staff was trying valiantly to replenish supplies, and the bars — three of them, thankfully — were doing brisk business.

And then he had his plan. Greet Mallory as proof that Bond had been a good little worker bee and attended the party. Find company for the night — and cheers to whatever costume designer had decided that medieval women’s costumes should have tight bodices and low-cut necklines. Then find a dark corner of the hotel and forget all about MI6 for the rest of Christmas Eve.

 

~~~

 

Before Q could swallow the last of his drink, he found another already at his elbow. He smiled around his glass, knowing it had nothing to do with his obvious need to be inebriated and everything to do with the more than generous tip he’d given to the bartender. More of a bribe, really.

Thankfully, he hadn’t had to speak to anyone yet. Eve had smiled at him and tried to make her way over, but whatever she’d seen on his face had made her promptly change course. Good. He liked her well enough, but he was still too sober to be sociable.

As he scanned the crowd, his eyes fell on olive-drab wool across a strong broad chest. Q let his eyes wander appreciatively over the sight, only to realise too late that he was staring at his own costume. One that was on a body far superior to his own, he groused. Q quickly glanced up to see blond hair, a strong jaw, and piercing blue eyes.

James Bond. Of _course_ it was James Bond.

Embarrassed at how hard he’d been staring, Q looked away, hastily scanning the crowd for anything that would distract him from the sight of James Bond in uniform. Especially a World War II uniform.

An unfamiliar voice interrupted his thoughts. “You look like you could use a bit of Christmas spirit.”

Red caught Q’s attention, and he turned to find himself staring into the face of Father Christmas. With a soft laugh, Q lifted his glass and gave it a little shake, the ice clinking loudly. “I think I’m well into the Christmas _spirits_ , at this point, thank you.”

“Not as much as you could be,” the man said slyly. “An officer like you deserves a good holiday before heading off to war.”

Q smiled and took a sip to keep from answering right away. Maybe the uniform was working for him after all. “I have to agree with you. We do always seem to be at war, don’t we? So, if you want to spread a little Christmas cheer, I can’t seem to find it in myself to say no.”

Father Christmas slid in a little closer. “Well, if that’s the case, can I buy you your next Christmas spirit?”

“Please tell me that line doesn’t _actually_ work?” Q asked with a good-natured groan. “And thank you, but I’m good for the moment.” The man frowned slightly at Q and started to back up. He quickly realised the rejection in what he’d just said and put a hand on the man’s arm to stop him. He smiled reassuringly and said, “But you can keep me company, if you’d like.”

“I can work with that,” Father Christmas answered with an easy smile.

 

~~~

 

“Are we all resigning to join the cavalry, then?”

Bond turned and smiled at Eve in genuine appreciation. He gave himself a moment to take in her costume — a sleeveless white gown of gorgeously draped silk, a golden apple in one hand... “Eris, goddess of discord. You didn’t spike the punch with ecstasy, did you?”

Eve pouted. “Damn. That’s actually a clever idea,” she said. Then she laughed and tapped the centre of his chest. “Very nice, but I think it looks better on Q.”

“Thank — Sorry?” Bond asked.

“Your partner in planning? The Quartermaster? Or... was it _not_ planned?”

“Are you trying to live up to your costume, or am I too sober for this to make sense?”

She laughed and flicked her nail against his chest again. “You can stop pretending, 007. You and the Quartermaster, showing up in identical costumes. You might as well serenade him under his balcony.”

Bond stared at her, convinced that he’d missed something significant. “What the _hell_ are you talking about?”

Her smile faded. She looked past Bond, tossing the apple in her hand. “Are you saying _that’s_ a coincidence?” she asked, nodding towards one of the bars.

Bond turned and spotted familiar olive drab wool next to gaudy red edged in white fake fur. A cavalry officer and Father Christmas, walking intimately close, heading for a corner exit. Even from behind, he recognised Q’s graceful stride and the soft, too-long-to-be-regulation hair curling over his nape.

“ _That’s_ Q?”

“Mhm.” Eve hooked her arm in Bond’s and nudged at him. “And it looks like you’re too late.”

 _Father Christmas_ , Bond thought, frowning. He glanced around at the rest of the costumes, noting masks and makeup, but nothing as trite — as _concealing_ — as Father Christmas’ full beard and padded suit.

Hadn’t he seen an alert from the American CIA about that? Trevor... something. No. Rene Trevor. Got his start in theatre, got close to his targets through —

“Costumes,” he muttered, pushing away from Eve as he unsnapped the period-appropriate leather holster at his hip — the one holding his very inauthentic Walther PPK.

 

~~~

 

All it took was one good shove, right into Q’s sternum. One good shove, and Q was flying backwards. He hit the pool with a loud splash that was quickly muffled by water that wasted no time in dragging him under.

It took him an insufferably long time to parse out what was going on. One minute he was flirting with the man in red; the next, the man’s eyes had gone cold, and Q was falling. He immediately tried to shift and kick to the surface, but the uniform just weighed _so much_. It didn’t help that something was pressing on his head, making it impossible for him to move upward. Every time he tried to gain leverage, he was shoved further under.

Panic set in when he felt nails scratch along his scalp. The man was holding him under. Q flailed and tried to grab hold of the hand, but the uniform was making him sluggish and he couldn’t gain purchase. The harder he tried, the harder it became.

His chest started to burn as he held his breath. He refused to open his mouth for fear of taking on water and speeding up the inevitable. But it was becoming hard to fight back. So hard...

Then he heard a loud _crack_ , muffled by the water filling his ears. Arms went around him, and he flailed, trying to break free, but his attacker was too strong. Instead of pulling him down, holding him under, the hands clutching his wool clothing gave him a sharp pull, and his head broke the surface.

Q gasped, sucking in fresh, clean, _glorious_ air. The intensity had him coughing, even as he still tried to fight against the hold on him. “ _What the hell?_ he sputtered. “Let go —”

 _“Q!”_ The shout was loud in his ear; his attacker didn’t lighten his hold on Q’s short jacket. “It’s Bond. Stop fighting!”

“Bond?” Q asked inanely. Where had Father Christmas gone? He calmed down, kicked slowly, and allowed Bond to drag him through the water. “Where did you come from? What happened?”

Bond didn’t say another word until they were at the edge of the pool — directly in line-of-sight of red. Red cloth, red blood, spreading in a puddle over the concrete floor. “If you wanted to shag an assassin, try not to pick one from the enemy’s ranks,” he said a bit breathlessly, helping Q to get hold of the ladder.

“Enemy’s ranks?” Q repeated. He knew he sounded stupid, but he had no clue what was going on. He slowly dragged himself out of the pool, the wool of the uniform threatening to pull him back into the water. The word _assassin_ finally sank in, and he stopped on the top step to turn and stare at Bond. “Wait, are you saying Father Christmas was trying to _kill me_?”

Bond held onto the ladder with one hand and smirked up at Q. “Did you have a safeword?”

Q rolled his eyes and turned to finish climbing out of the pool. “Not everything is one of your kinky BDSM games, Bond.” He stepped off to the side of the ladder and held his hand out. “How did you even know to come find me?”

Bond took hold of Q’s hand and climbed out of the pool, as well. “Felix. He shared some intel about an assassin, a former actor who favours — _favoured_ costumes to get close to his targets.” He looked down at himself and scowled. “You should sit down.”

“So should you,” Q urged, not letting go of Bond’s hand. “I mean, I’m sure this thing is heavier on me than it is on you, but I still can’t imagine it’s easy to move in.” He looked around for a place for them to sit down, only to see a Walther lying on the concrete next to the pool. “I assume that’s yours,” he said, nodding towards the gun.

Bond shot Q a strangely sympathetic look. “Yes,” he said more gently. He led Q around the body — the _assassin_ — and picked up the Walther. As if by instinct, he looked down at his holster; then he grimaced and said, “I think the party’s over for both of us. Do you need medical attention?”

Q shook his head, “No, I think I’m all right. I just need to get out of this thing,” he said, gesturing at his outfit. He glanced back in the direction of the party. “We should probably also tell Mallory there’s a dead body out here.” He let out a short laugh, grinning. “That’ll teach him to have mandatory MI6 parties.”

“Mallory is having a lovely time with his wife, I’m certain,” Bond said. He let go of Q’s hand and extended the Walther to him. When Q took it automatically, Bond started to unbuckle the straps holding up Q’s purely decorative gun belt. “There’s no need to bother anyone. Unless you fancy spending the night answering tedious questions?”

“Oh, heavens no. I answer enough tedious questions from my staff every day.” Q stuck the Walther in his back pocket and watched Bond pull his belt off before moving onto the cross strap. He stood there, doing nothing to help Bond. Or to stop him. “Are you just going to strip me right out here by the pool?”

“Is that an invitation?” Bond asked without looking up. He let each piece of Q’s costume fall aside, and then he started on the buttons down the front of Q’s sodden jacket.

Q’s breath caught at the implication behind Bond’s words. Of all the directions he’d expected the evening to take, an assassination attempt on his life followed by flirting from James Bond certainly hadn’t been anywhere on the list. “I — I hadn’t meant — you don’t — if I say yes?”

“Unless I’m mistaken, I did just save your life.” Bond laughed and tugged open Q’s jacket. “I’m just not _quite_ enough of a bastard to take advantage of that. Not tonight, at any rate,” he added thoughtfully, tracing one finger down Q’s chest, along the edge of his tie. “And there are the usual considerations: Was Trevor working alone? Who hired him? All that sort of thing.”

“You’re no fun.” Q huffed, somewhat petulantly. He knew Bond was right; this situation was far from over. But Q couldn’t help feeling just a bit smug that he’d caught James Bond’s attention. Or just a bit fascinated at how quickly that attention had driven his recent near-death experience right out of his mind.

Q glanced at the party again before looking over Bond’s own soaked uniform with a slight smile. “You know, Bond, it’s _inhumanely_ unfair how much better you look in this thing than I do.” He glanced back up and Bond uncertainly. “Did you know I would be wearing this?”

“Actually, no.” Bond gave Q a sly grin as he reached the lowest button. The backs of his fingers pressed against Q’s waistband. “Did you steal yours from the archives?”

“No, of course I —” Q’s eyes widened in shock. “Wait, did _you_?”

“Of course, I did. I hate fancy dress parties. I have perfectly good dinner suits for this sort of thing — though admittedly, I’d be furious if I had to jump into a pool in one.”

Q laughed and batted lightly at Bond’s arm. “I would believe that if I hadn’t seen with my own CCTV eyes what you do to your suits on a near-constant basis.” He wrapped his fingers around Bond’s arm, feeling wet wool, and knew that Bond was soaked all the way to his skin. Just like Q was. “You know, we really do need to find someplace where we can actually get out of these wet clothes.”

“Keep talking like that” — Bond pointedly tugged Q’s jacket back over his shoulders — “and you’ll convince me you’re not in shock after all.”

“Bond.” Q’s stomach gave a little lurch as he stepped impossibly closer, holding the agent’s gaze. “I work in espionage, and I’ve been an excellent swimmer since I was five. It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than being held underwater for a minute or two to frighten me.”

“In that case, I’ll let Eve know to get a cleanup team in here, while I escort you to —” He paused, hooking one finger in Q’s tie. “You _do_ have a room here, don’t you? The whole executive team reserved a block of suites, I understand.”

“Yes, that was Mallory’s, ‘I don’t want you getting pissed and then stumbling around London with state secrets in your sloshed head’ trope. Since MI6 was paying for it, we all happily obliged.” Q reached into his trouser pocket and produced his room card as proof. “See? I’m all set — just ten floors up.”

“If you’re not in shock, then I’m _not_ taking unfair advantage,” Bond said thoughtfully. “You won’t report me to Personnel, will you? They really are sick of me stopping by.”

Figuring he only got to live once, Q closed the distance between himself and Bond. He wrapped his fingers around Bond’s nape and pulled him in for a scorching kiss that Q felt all the way down to his toes. When he broke off seconds later, he quipped, “There. I started it. You can blame me for the sexual harassment.”

“Now there’s a thought. I’ve never reported anyone for sexual harassment.” Bond grinned, sliding his hands down Q’s wet shirt to rest on his hips. “Is there a lot of paperwork?”

Q nodded innocently. “Yes. Lots. Tons, even. And you do _so_ love your paperwork.”

Bond huffed and pulled Q close for another kiss, this one softer, lingering. “Then you’ll have to convince me we have better things to do,” he said, barely drawing back from Q’s lips. “But let’s do that upstairs. It’s Christmas Eve, and even I know there’s something wrong with doing this near a dead Father Christmas.”

Q glanced sidelong at the dead assassin on the ground and shivered. “Yes, you’re probably right.” He turned to look back at Bond as he ran his hand slowly down Bond’s spine, resting it on the agent’s lower back. He caught Bond’s eye and said softly, “Thank you for coming after me, 007.”

Bond smiled slyly and brushed his fingertips over Q’s jaw. “I’ll always protect you, Quartermaster.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find us both on tumblr at [kryptaria](http://www.kryptaria.tumblr.com/) and [stephrc79](http://www.stephrc79.tumblr.com/). Come say hi!


End file.
